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My eyes take in nothing but darkness.

My ears hear only the angry sea.

The sound crystallizes into footsteps, heavy and gritty.

A figure appears in the far distance, a black cutout denser than the night from which it emerges. He or she walks toward me. Unhurried, steady. Darkness obscures his or her features.

I hold my breath.

Then Ryan is there, his expression saying he’s piqued.

What’s happened to you? he asks.

I don’t understand.

You aren’t with me.

I’m working a case.

Ryan’s feet spread and brace. Behind him, the sand crumbles.

There. Go there. He points at something over my shoulder, his finger unnaturally long.

I swivel. See a house silhouetted in eerie moonlight.

I’ve no wish to approach it, but feel compelled to follow Ryan’s directive.

Drawing near, I note that the structure is old and weathered, its wooden exterior the color of dirt from a grave. Its carved front door is painted bright red.

I turn the knob and push the door inward.

Air rushes out, damp and rotten. Angry at being contained against its will?

Then I’m inside, wandering from one gloom-shrouded room to another.

The place is unique, I think. Like a brothel, only less tasteful. Red velvet. Tarnished brass. An overload of tassels and fringe.

As I cross a wide threshold into a large empty chamber, a figure crawls the triple panes of a big bay window.

I open my mouth to scream.

Realize I am seeing my own reflection.

Without warning, I’m descending steep stairs, a tiny woman beside me. Her feet get tangled in her long skirt.

Help me, she pleads.

I don’t know how.

It’s in the bag, she says.

Then I’m on a two-lane blacktop.

Rain is falling hard.

A storm drain runs alongside the road, clogged and overflowing. I watch puddles merge to form a shallow lake on the pavement, its surface pockmarked by the deluge of drops.

When I glance up the whole street is submerged.